


and i'm ready to go, lead me into the light

by InsideMyBrain



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: (they drink too much rockstar), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Area 51 Raid, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Intricate Rituals, M/M, Naruto running, Substance Abuse, T'hy'la, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-10-17 09:24:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20618711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsideMyBrain/pseuds/InsideMyBrain
Summary: September 2019. Jim Kirk, though disappointed that the original raid on Area 51 has been canceled, nevertheless has plans to go to the Area 51 party in L.A. with a group of friends from college. But when his friend Scotty's radio picks up a peculiar message and the only person who can make any sense of it is an old rival, it turns out the original plan was the most logical all along.





	1. Oh yeah, it's all coming together

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Has anyone made an area 51 raid spirk au](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/519284) by wildflowersonthehill. 

> special thanks to the linked tumblr post above for breaking me out of my months-long writers block.
> 
> there are probably many inaccuracies and a lot of ooc-ness in this so don't @ me i wrote this for the meme not to be accurate
> 
> that being said, enjoy this nonsense!! the title is from Katy Perry's song E.T.

**19/09/2019 - L.A., CA - 06:03**

_Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt._ A battered iPhone 6s trembles on the university-provided bedside table with the force of an urgent call for several minutes before its owner, one second year student Jim Kirk, reaches over and taps the green button.

"What," Jim mumbles through a dry mouth, "do you want, Scotty? I was sleeping."

"Sorry," Scotty, another student, says breathlessly on the other line, "but I need to tell you something. I cannae make sense of it on my own."

Jim raises an eyebrow sleepily. "It couldn't be through text?"

"I need you to hear this." There's some shuffling on the other end, then the unmistakable sound of a radio being tuned.

"A radio?" Jim asks, unimpressed. 

"Shh, listen," Scotty whispers. Jim strains his ears, then hears someone speaking - but he can't tell what the person is saying. The voice is male, speaking the words softly and quickly, as though afraid of getting caught. 

"I... hear someone speaking another language?" Jim says questioningly. "Congratulations, Scotty, you discovered a language besides English exists."

"But Jim, it isn't a language," Scotty protests, as Jim rolls over in bed. "I checked. He's speaking the same message over and over again, has been for the past couple hours, so I transcribed all the words, and they don't match any human language in existence."

"You checked it against all human languages?" Jim frowns. "Scotty, get some sleep, man. Start the semester off right, at least."

"You're one to talk," Scotty says under his breath, before continuing: "My point is, Jim, something's off. An unintelligible language on a secure channel, that has to mean something's about to go down in the area."

"Wait." Jim sits up in bed. "A secure channel? What do you mean?"

"Did I not mention that already?" Scotty asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Uh, no?! How much Rockstar have you had?" Jim asks, laughing incredulously.

"Only a few cans!"

"Uh huh."

"Anyway, the message is being broadcasted on a secure frequency - it can only be accessed through the radio by tuning it to a very specific channel, the number of which is like twenty digits long-"

"Scotty, how exactly did you get this number?" Jim asks, a smile creeping on to his face.

Scotty flounders for a bit before finally saying timidly, "hacking into a government website?"

Jim breaks into a grin. "Now this sounds like my kind of thing. You want to come over, or should I?"

Scotty laughs on the other end. "I'll come to yours."

* * *

Half an hour later, Jim is dressed in sweats and a tank top, letting a very disheveled-looking Scotty into his dorm.

"It's got to be a secret code, right?" Scotty asks, the second Jim shuts the door behind them.

"Obviously," Jim agrees.

Bones sighs heavily from his bed. "Why couldn't y'all morons have waited until I was in class to do this?"

"It couldn't wait any longer, Bones," Jim answers happily, clearing space off his desk. Scotty sets the radio down on it. "If the message is as urgent as this guy sounds, some shit is gonna go down pretty soon. If it's about, say, launching a nuclear attack on North Korea, I wanna know when and where and why and how."

Bones rolls his eyes as Scotty begins inputting the number, periodically glancing down at a little slip of paper in his hand. "More likely it's about that Area 51 thing. You know, giving the guards permission to kill those idiots, because you know some will show up anyway."

"Hey, I was going to be one of those idiots showing up before they canceled it," Jim retorts. "And I'm still dragging you to the Area 51 party downtown tomorrow, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah." Bones hops out of bed and grabs his towel. "I'm gonna go take a shower and then yeet. Have fun decoding a message of absolutely no importance." With that, he slips out of the room. 

"Ignore him," Jim tells Scotty, "he's always grumpy in the morning."

"And in the afternoon, and in the evening, and at night," Scotty adds, and Jim laughs.

"Fair enough."

Scotty inputs the last few numbers, and they both listen intently for the man's voice, by now as familiar and welcoming as rich chocolate, and hear... nothing.

"It stopped?" Jim asks.

Scotty frowns. "Let me try the number again." He does, but still nothing. The two friends share a disappointed grimace. "Never mind," Scotty says, producing another piece of paper. "I wrote down the words. We can try to crack it through this."

"Okay." Jim pulls up both his desk chair and Bones', and they sit down. "Let's do this."

Unfortunately, by the time Jim has to go to his first class of the day, they're no closer to making sense of it than they were when Scotty first arrived. Before leaving for class, Jim has Scotty copy out the "words" of the message for him, so they can both puzzle over it in class and then reconvene that night. And true to his word, Jim does puzzle over it all day. He's re-reading the words in his notebook instead of paying attention to his second lecture of the day when someone taps him on the shoulder.

"Nodding off, Kirk?"

He turns to smile his most disarming smile at Nyota Uhura, a friendly rival of his since last year. 

"Nope," he replies, "just concentrating on a problem more important than 19th century Russian lit."

"I'm sure it is to you," she says, eyebrows raised.

"Actually..." Jim puts aside any misgivings, and shows her the notebook. "You're a linguistics major. Can you make any sense of this message?"

She takes the notebook from him and reads the transcribed words.

_goal tore nash ve pash tore vesht kish aya san oo goal tore_

"What is this, some kind of code?" She asks skeptically, but Jim can see the sparkle in her brown eyes that indicates excitement at a new linguistics problem.

"That's what we think."

"We?"

Jim lowers his voice. "Me and Scotty. We're meeting up at my dorm tonight to work on it some more. You're free to join."

"I'll think about it," she says, but the suspicion in her voice is betrayed by her eyes. Jim turns to face the front again, smiling.

* * *

"Okay," says Uhura that night, bursting into Jim's dorm, "I've been thinking-"

"Sh!" Jim cuts her off, getting up to close the door behind her. "Scotty's trying to access the channel again. Plus, this is top secret."

"Top secret?" She asks in confusion. "The channel? I thought this was just, like, a thought exercise."

"Oh, no," Jim says, and fills her in as Scotty inputs his number. Her eyebrows climb higher and higher up her forehead as the explanation progresses, but at the end, she just sighs and says, "I shouldn't have expected anything else from you guys."

"Facts," Bones quips from his side of the room, flipping a page in his biology textbook. 

"Shhhh," Scotty says, holding up his hands. "I'm on the frequency now."

The four of them pause and listen. Dead silence.

"It's been like this since 6:30 this morning," Scotty tells Uhura. "The message was coming through loud and clear before that."

"Well, whispered and hasty," Jim corrects.

"We get it, you're a lit major," Bones mumbles. 

"Anyway," says Uhura, "do you wanna hear my thoughts on this code?"

"Yes, of course." 

"Well," Uhura begins, "it's definitely not a code based on translating words to English, because its syntax is completely different from English. In English we say "I went", not "went I", but this language seems to be using the second example of syntax."

"So its grammar is different?" Jim asks. "Could it be a code based on a different language?"

"It's possible." Uhura frowns. "We'd have to check it against every living language."

Scotty grins and slams a sixpack of Rockstar down on Jim's desk. "Then we better get started, lassie."

* * *

They've been working hard for a few hours when the radio crackles. 

"Guysshutthefuckup!" Scotty whisper-screams, despite the fact no one had been talking, his bloodshot eyes darting to the radio.

The crackling continues for a few more moments, then the same male voice begins whispering the same message.

_"Goal tore nash ve pash tore vesht kish aya san oo goal tore. Goal tore nash ve pash tore vesht kish aya san oo goal tore. Goal tore nash ve pash tore vesht kish aya san oo goal tore."_

Uhura leans forward and silently turns the volume up.

_"Goal tore nash ve pash tore vesht kish aya san oo goal tore. __Goal tore nash ve- _ugh." 

The three of them exchange excited and bewildered looks.

"Hello?" The voice on the radio whispers. "If anyone can hear me, please listen sympathetically. I know this is a breach of the prime directive, but it has been days without a response, so attempting to reach sympathetic ears in Standard seemed the logical choice. I have no alternative at this point."

_Prime directive? Standard what?_ Jim leans in, straining his ears, his curiosity almost bursting out of them.

"This is a call for help. I am trapped in a Terran military base colloquially known as Area 51. I have been attempting to reach those of my own race, but it seems now that in this time, it is impossible. I repeat, this is a call for help. I am trapped in a Terran military base colloquially known as Area 51. Please help." The voice quivers. "Please h-"

There's a pregnant silence for a few moments. 

"What happened?" Jim whispers.

"I'm still connected to the channel," Scotty whispers back, "so he must have voluntarily disconnected on his end."

"Or someone else pulled the plug on him." Uhura adds.

There's another long pause.

"Guys," Jim says slowly, "you know what this means, right?"

They blink back at him, all sleepy eyes and confused minds.

Jim breaks into almost maniacal laughter. "We're storming Area 51, baby!"


	2. Creeper... aw man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out saying you're going to raid Area 51 is a lot easier than actually doing it. Who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it seems a little rushed at the end, I just really wanted to get a chapter up before the actual day of the raid. Happy raid eve tho and enjoy!

**20/09/2019 - L.A., CA - 24:12**

_So the lesson learned here is,_ Jim thinks, _never tell Bones anything._

"And another thing," Bones continues his voice-of-reason rant, "there's no way to tell if you _should_ be rescuing this guy, never mind the logistics of it! It seems to me that if someone's trapped in a US military base, they're there for a reason!"

"If we've learned anything from the US government lately, it's that they have no qualms about imprisoning innocent people," Uhura counters.

"She's right," Scotty adds.

Bones turns on Uhura. "Why are you on their side? This is the dumbest idea I've ever heard from Jim, and that's a pretty low bar."

"Hey," Jim says defensively.

"I don't actually want to storm the base, don't get me wrong," Uhura backpedals, "I'm just saying."

"Guys, there's no timeline in which we don't do this," Jim announces. The rest of the group looks at him questioningly. He straightens his posture, adopts a lofty tone, and soldiers on: "As far as we know, we're the only people who have picked up this message and know that this guy is actually in trouble. That makes him our responsibility. Could y'all live with the guilt of potentially causing a man to be tortured and/or killed?"

"Yeah," says Bones.

"Probably," says Scotty.

"I guess I'll have to see," says Uhura.

Jim slumps back in his chair. "Wow. You guys are stone cold."

"It's not that I don't want to help," Uhura says apologetically, "but we can't storm Area 51 with just the three of us. There's got to be another way to help this guy. Couldn't we like, bring this to some aid organization who can get him out legally?"

"Absolutely not," Jim says sharply. "This has to stay underground. I'm really not into disappearing under mysterious circumstances."

"Agreed," Scotty says. "I think we'd have a better shot at infiltrating the base if we assembled some kind of team."

"Well, there's us three for starters," Jim muses. He turns to look at Bones.

"No." Bones holds up a hand. "No, no, no, and no. This is ridiculous. I'm not participating, and I'm not allowing y'all to get yourselves killed in the Nevada desert. Chief, this ain't it."

"Bones," Jim laughs, slinging an arm around his shoulder, "buddy. Pal. My guy. Nothing you say or do can stop us. And if you don't come, we probably will get ourselves killed." He smiles cheerfully. 

Bones groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Just remind me to update my will before we go."

"Yes!" Jim cheers, and the others laugh. 

"Let's all get some sleep," suggests Uhura. "We can assemble our team and figure out the logistics of it in the morning."

Scotty and Uhura then leave for their respective rooms, and Jim and Bones fall into bed. Bones, no doubt fully over his friends' shenanigans, is out in seconds. Jim tosses and turns for a few hours before dreaming of large, dark eyes like black holes, soft skin like shifting sand dunes, and the incessant murmuring of a foreign tongue.

* * *

"Alrighty." Jim cracks his knuckles loudly, making Bones wince. "Let's plan this shit out."

It's morning; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and the gang is once again gathered in Jim and Bones' room, this time with two additions: Hikaru Sulu, who's offered the use of his car, and Pavel Chekhov, a first year CompSci student with unrivalled hacking skills (though present company comes close). 

"First of all," Jim continues, so far thoroughly enjoying his role as leader of the raid, "we need a plan of attack. It says here on Wikipedia-" he quickly pulls up the article on his phone- "the perimeter of the base is marked out by orange posts and patrolled by guards in white pickup trucks and camouflage fatigues. Technology is also heavily used to maintain the border of the base; this includes surveillance cameras and motion detectors. Some of these motion detectors are placed some distance away from the base on public land to notify guards of people approaching." He lowers his phone, glancing around at the group. "And that's just the outer layer of security. If we make it past that, we still need to sneak through the entire military base."

"Well, it is fairly easy to fool those motion detectors," Chekhov pipes up, swiping on his phone. "A motion sensor used to defend a location as important as Area 51 will likely use ultrasonic waves to detect movement. All we have to do is send out our own ultrasonic waves to blend with theirs and disguise our presence." He pauses to take a selfie, holding a gang sign above his head. He adds it to his Snapchat story, then locks his phone. "It will essentially make us invisible to their sensors."

"Perfect," says Jim, "that's one aspect covered. Anyone got ideas for the guards and and the cameras?"

"The obvious course is to somehow cover the cameras and subdue the guards," Sulu says.

"Tasers for the guards?" Scotty suggests.

"They have _guns_, Scotty," Bones says, exasperated. "You're not gonna be able to get close enough to taser them." 

"We'll just sneak up on them," he shrugs. 

"I guess we'll also probably need authorization of some kind to get into the base itself," Jim says, only now realizing that. 

"Taser the guards, steal their ID?" Scotty says. "Two birds, one stone."

"That's true." Jim furrows his brow in concentration. "There's still the matter of the security cameras." He turns to Chekhov. "Pavel, I don't suppose you know how to make us invisible to the cameras, too?"

"Not really," he shrugs. "We can cover our faces so as not to be recognized, but our physical presence is is impossible to hide without covering the cameras and alerting security."

"Our best bet is probably to wear something that camouflages us into the sand, and army crawl up to the base," Uhura says, "then taser the guards, wear their uniforms and take their ID, then stroll in like nothing is wrong."

The group exchanges silent looks. "I mean, yeah," Bones says eventually, "but that's super risky."

"Isn't it all, Leonard?" Scotty asks, clapping him on the shoulder. Bones sighs.

"It's the best plan we've got, so we're going with it," Jim says firmly. "So here's what we're gonna do for the next few hours: we buy the sand camouflage gear and tasers, stock up on water, snacks, phone chargers, other necessities, get our hands on something to send out ultrasonic waves, and pack the car. Then, we have to tell everyone we know that we're going to the Area 51 party downtown tonight, so that we have an alibi if anything happens." Jim nods at his friends - no, now his _crew_ \- and feels an immense swell of pride in his chest. Somehow, the prospect of this insane suicide mission to Area 51 fills him with hopeful determination, like he's found a guiding star, a powerful undercurrent in the river of creation for his little leaf to drift into. "We depart for Area 51 at 4:00PM sharp."

"Let's split up so we can get it all done in time," Uhura suggests. "I'll pick up the practical gear - sand camouflage, tasers, all that stuff. Leonard, wanna come with? I may need your expert med student advice."

"Sure," Bones agrees, "hopefully I can stop at least some of y'all from dying."

"Pavel, can you and Hikaru source the ultrasonic wave device?"

"Of course!" Pavel says. "We can make some. C'mon!" He grabs Sulu by the arm and pulls him out of the dorm, saying something about livestreaming on the way.

"And what should we do?" Scotty asks Uhura. 

"Try to contact our prisoner," she says. "It'll be easier to rescue him if he knows we're there to help." With that, she nods to Bones, and the two depart. The door bangs shut behind them, leaving Scotty and Jim suddenly alone and awkward in the dorm. 

"Right, well..." Jim flounders for a moment. "How could we possibly contact him?"

"It is a radio frequency." Scotty shrugs. "If we got access to a broadcaster, we could probably broadcast a message across that same channel. The question is, does he still have access to it, and will anyone else hear us?"

"I guess we'll just have to find out," Jim says. "Where can we broadcast a message on radio frequencies?"

"I've got just the place." Scotty types on his phone for a moment, then turns it around to show Jim an Instagram account. 

_SoCal U Student Radio_, the profile's title proclaims.

* * *

An hour and several picked locks later, Jim and Scotty are sitting in the broadcasting room of the USC Student Radio Station, fiddling with settings and buttons. Jim is busying himself with snooping around the place while Scotty inputs the number to access the radio frequency. 

"0... 3... 6... 2... 9... and 5," Scotty mutters, then flips a final switch. "We're on the frequency," he says to Jim.

Jim stops rifling through the wastepaper basket for scraps of gossip, and concentrates on listening. All he can hear is static silence.

"It doesn't seem like he has access to the frequency anymore," Jim says, frowning. "Should we send a test message?"

"It's better than sitting here waiting for him to call _us_ first," Scotty says, so Jim leans forward, presses a button, and speaks quietly into the mic.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" Jim waits a moment, and when no one responds, he continues: "We know someone is trapped in Area 51 - if you're listening, we heard your plea for help last night. We want to help. We are planning a mission to rescue you. If you're there, please speak to us. Your insider information would be extremely valuable in our-"

"Hello." A smooth, quiet voice interrupts Jim's monologue. It is undoubtedly the voice they heard pleading for help the night before. "May I enquire as to whom is contacting me?"

"My name's Jim," he says excitedly, without thinking. The next second Scotty's palm claps over his mouth, muffling his intention of finishing his introduction with his last name. "What the hell, man?" He asks, after pulling Scotty's hand away.

"You're the one who wanted this to be entirely underground," Scotty reminds him. 

"Right. Well, my name is Jim. I can't provide my last name on the grounds of secrecy."

"I see." The voice is rather dry. "I am Spock. I would provide my full name, but seeing as it is rather impossible for humans to pronounce, I shall spare you."

"Humans?" Jim's breath catches in his throat. "Do you mean you're not human?"

Spock pauses, seemingly conflicted. "I must first inquire as to your affiliations, and how it is that you found me. I must be careful with the information I reveal."

"Of course, us as well." Jim looks at Scotty, then lowers his voice. "Could this be a trap?" he whispers.

"It's the same voice," says Scotty.

"Don't you think they could replicate that?"

"You must know I can hear the two of you whispering," says Spock. There's a definite note of amusement in the words, though it is short lived. "You must listen to me, I haven't much time on this frequency. How did you find me?"

"Scotty?" Jim prompts. Scotty glares at him before turning to the mic.

"I was able to discover this frequency through a secure government website, which I accessed by unauthorized means," Scotty says deliberately. 

"You hacked into a government website?" Spock asks.

"Yeah, basically." Jim cuts in. 

"What are your occupations?" 

"Well, I work at Chipotle," Jim offers, "part time. But we're both students."

"I see. Does anyone else know of my existence outside of this base?"

"Only six people know about you," Scotty says, "and each one of them is part of our rescue team."

Spock lets out a breath - perhaps of relief, perhaps of frustration. "It seems I have no choice but to trust you. Very well. Please listen carefully to what I am about to tell you, and do not reveal this information to anyone other than those six who already know of me."

Jim and Scotty lean in. 

"I need you to say that you understand me."

"We understand," Jim says quickly. 

"Yes, of course," Scotty adds.

"My name is Spock," he states, "and I am what you would term an 'extraterrestrial', or an 'alien', as my planet of origin is not Earth. I am from the planet Vulcan, which is sixteen light years from Earth. Although I could be termed an 'alien', I am not a full Vulcan - my father is Vulcan, but my mother is human. I was captured by agents of your government and transported here soon after I arrived in 21st century San Francisco due to an unfortunate accident at Starfleet Academy, which is a school that trains cadets for service on starships and in space. I am from the 23rd century - the future."

There is a long pause while the two humans digest all this. 

"I knew it," Jim whispers.

"Pardon?" Spock asks.

"I knew it!" he whoops. "I knew the government was hiding aliens in Area 51 this whole time!"

"You're really just gonna gloss over the time travelling part?" Scotty asks.

Jim waves away his suspicion. "Aliens have superior technology, Scotty. It's common sense."

"Sure."

"You were saying something about providing information that pertains to the rescue mission?" Spock asks. 

"Ah, right!" Jim laughs. "Any information that you could provide about the layout or the security of the building would help, honestly."

"I am afraid I cannot provide much information," Spock tells them. "I was unconscious while I was brought here, and therefore I only know the layout of the small cell in which I am being kept. I do know that the guards outside my door change their posts every hour, and when they do that they take the opportunity to check on me."

"Right," Scotty mumbles, "so we'll be going in blind."

"I apologize," says Spock stiffly.

"No, it's totally okay," Jim says. "How hard can it be?"

"I am trapped in a military base," Spock deadpans.

"Yeah, well... Don't worry about it," replies Jim. 

There is a slight pause, then Spock says, hesitatingly, "I realize the chances of success here are... very little. I feel I should-"

"Sh!" Scotty breaks in, holding up a hand. Spock falls silent, and Jim realizes the door handle is being jiggled.

"Oh shit," he mutters, then says to Spock, "listen, we gotta go. We'll see you very soon."

Scotty disconnects from the frequency, and they scramble to get out. They slip out the back door just as the radio hosts come in from the front.

* * *

"Okay," Uhura says later, spreading out the supplies on Jim's desk. "Let's organize." She takes some sand-coloured camo fatigues out of a plastic bag and tosses them at Jim. "There's one for each of us," she tells him. Jim hands them out wordlessly. "Pavel, where are those sensor blockers?"

"Right here." He hands her a small case. It clicks open in her palm, revealing six shiny black discs, each about the size of a bottle cap. "We'll just put them in our pockets, and we should pass by the motion detectors undetected," he says.

"Perfect." Uhura snaps the case shut again. "We also got tasers from Wall-Mart." She pulls a few out of the bag and sets them on the table. "We also stocked up on Gatorade, bottled water, and Rockstar. We're going to be army crawling across the desert - if we don't stay hydrated, we'll die." 

"We also got backpacks that'll blend into the sand," Bones pitches in. "Everybody make a pack. I don't want anybody getting separated from the group and being left with no supplies."

The friends each grab one of the bags and start filling them with supplies. Jim puts in his fatigues, a sixpack of fruit punch Rockstar, a box of Cheez-Its, and a couple granola bars, and zips it up.

"Is that all?" he asks. "Are we really good to go?"

They all look around at each other. 

"I think so," says Uhura. 

Jim whoops. "Let's get it!"

The group laughs, and then starts cheering. 

* * *

Sulu's car isn't anything special, just a beat-up grey Prius, but it nevertheless feels to Jim as they pack it like it's a symbol of their new enterprise. He gets in the passenger seat beside Sulu, and looks around at his friends. Uhura and Bones are going over the checklist, Bones sipping an iced coffee, Scotty is tinkering with his radio, Chekhov is juuling and Snapchatting pictures of himself and the crew. He turns the camera toward Jim, who instinctively holds up a peace sign. Chekhov blows a large smoke ring, then snaps the picture.

"That's going on my story," Chekhov mutters, and Jim has to laugh. He turns around again and buckles his seatbelt.

"Everybody ready?" Sulu asks, looking at the backseat through the rearview.

"Hell yeah!" Scotty says. Uhura puts up a thumbs up and Bones slurps up the last of his coffee.

"Let's get this over with," he sighs.

"That's the spirit, Bones," Jim tells him. Sulu turns the key in the engine, and immediately the radio comes on, playing a familiar tune. Jim leans in to turn it up as Sulu backs the car out of his parking spot.

The car peals down the street, Mr. Blue Sky blasting from its speakers, Nevada-bound.


	3. Yeah, this is big brain time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the raid begins!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for updating so late, it's almost been a whole month! hopefully I can bang out another two chapters and have this done by december

**20/09/2019 - Alamo, NV - 22:18**

Sulu’s car pulls up to a gas station, its florescent lighting glinting on the side mirrors, casting beams of light into the surrounding darkness. Inside, the crew yawns and stretches.

“Anyone need the bathroom?” Jim asks. Bones and Chekhov nod and hop out of the car. Jim turns in his seat and stretches his legs, resting his feet on the backseat. Uhura unties his shoelace. He raises an eyebrow at her. “You trying to sabotage the mission?”

“Never,” she replies sarcastically.

“Scotty, how’s it going with the frequency?” Jim turns to him.

Jim had filled in the rest of the group about Spock during the long car ride, during which Scotty brought up the fact that he was trying to modify the radio so they could speak to Spock during the raid. He’d been working on it pretty much the entire car ride, so Jim’s hoping for some good news.

“It’s going, Jim,” Scotty tells him. “I think I’ve got it, but so far Spock isn’t on the line.”

“Excellent!” Jim grins. “Everything’s falling into place.”

“I sure hope so,” Uhura sighs.

At that moment, Bones and Chekhov reappear and hop back in the car. “Alright,” says Jim, “now that we’re all gathered, let’s go over the plan.” He pulls up Google Maps on his phone and turns it around to show the route they need to take. “We’ll park the car here and change into the fatigues, then continue on foot this way. I’ll lead the way, but Bones and Uhura, I sent you guys both a copy of the route, so use that to help keep everybody together. We’ll regroup and plan our attack once the fences are in view.”

Each member of the group mutters something in agreement, so Jim and Sulu hop out of the car to hand out the backpacks from the trunk. Once they’re all distributed, they go to the gas station’s bathrooms to change.

“This place is nasty,” Bones comments, his eyes scanning the graffiti on the wall as he takes off his shirt.

“Yeah, pink shag carpeting is not a good look for a gas station bathroom,” Jim muses.

“No, I meant more like this graffiti that says, ‘Noah’s cumstain’, with this arrow that points to the aforementioned cumstain.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s also not such a good look.”

“Any ol’ port in a storm,” Scotty chips in, cracking open a Rockstar with one hand and unbuttoning his pants with the other. “Cheers lads.” He takes a long sip, then kicks off his jeans.

Jim laughs. “On the Rockstar already, Scotty?”

“My plan is to be so cracked out on taurine that I black out for most of the mission and remember nothing,” Scotty declares, “so that if we’re caught, I can’t be questioned.”

“Huh,” Jim says. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“Jesus,” Bones mutters.

Loud knocking on the bathroom door startles them. “Are you princesses almost done in there?” Uhura calls.

“Give me a second, my lipstick’s not just right!” Jim calls back. The boys laugh, and quickly finish up changing. They reconvene with Uhura outside of the gas station, and walk into the desert.

Most of the trip is dull for Jim, a constant grind of walking, checking the map, and sipping Rockstar whenever he gets thirsty, which is often. Things get kind of fuzzy by the time the base’s gate comes into view and they regroup to plan their attack. Jim vaguely remembers ordering everyone to split up - pairing himself with Bones and Chekhov and grouping Uhura, Scotty, and Sulu together - then passing around the tasers and sensor blockers. Before he knows it he’s on his stomach in the scorching sand, watching Chekhov taser a guard in a sort of out-of-body way.

“Did you see that?” Chekhov is probably being too loud for the precarious situation they’re in, but hey, the kid’s excited. Jim grins back at him. “He dropped like a ton of bricks. So cool!”

“Yes, yes, now hurry up and change into his uniform,” Bones hisses.

“Damn, Bones, don’t sound so eager about it,” Jim smirks at his friend, “he’s barely eighteen.”

“Fuck off, Jim,” Bones sighs. Jim giggles.

Once Chekhov has stripped the guard of his uniform and donned it, Jim and Bones roll the guy’s limp form behind a nearby shrub. Chekhov takes up the guard’s post.

“Stay here, don’t move, and don’t say anything,” Bones advises him. “If they talk to you just grunt.”

“Got it.”

Soon enough, Jim and Bones acquire some uniforms, and Jim sends a text to their group chat.

_How’s it goin with the taserin folks???_

A moment later, he gets a text from Uhura.

_Good. We’re all done here._

Jim shoots back a reply.

_Hell yeah, let’s meet up by the orange post in the ground._

He and Bones circle back to grab Chekhov, and then meet up with the rest of the crew at the designated post.

“What next?” Scotty whispers, once they’ve all joined up.

“We walk right in,” Jim replies. He sticks his hand in the uniform’s pocket and pulls out an ID card. He turns to the locked gate and, after a moment of searching for where, exactly, to scan it, he taps it neatly on a black pad to the left hand side of the gate.

A faint click can be heard, and a green light appears.

Jim reaches for the handle, expecting - fearing - some kind of resistance, but it just slips open like an exhale. 

“Let’s go,” he whispers.

The six of them step inside, and _officially_, begin their raid on Area 51.

* * *

Of course, it’s a lot less exciting and a lot more scary than the memes made it sound.

Once inside the gate, they have to bypass another door, which is opened using the ID card again, and they find themselves inside a sterile, brightly lit industrial space. After some speculating about where Spock could be kept, they decide it’s most likely he’s in the basement, and set about locating an elevator. This task is a little tricker than one would usually suspect, and consequently they spend about half an hour wandering around before conceding that they are, in fact, horribly lost.

“Thanks for your suggestion, Scotty,” Uhura snaps, after Jim stops everyone to regroup. “Turns out simply wandering around looking for an elevator isn’t such a great way to navigate a U.S. military base.”

“No need to get snippy,” he retorts, “I don’t see you whipping a map out of your ass.”

“Guys, c’mon,” Jim says, attempting to nip this catfight in the bud. “We just need a new strategy.”

“Alright, what’s the strategy?” Bones asks, his signature I’m-too-tired-for-this-shit voice coming through loud and clear.

“We…” Jim trails off, realizing he doesn’t have a strategy.

“Exactly.” Bones sighs. 

“Jim?” comes a voice from Scotty’s pocket. Jim’s head snaps up.

“Spock must be on the frequency,” Scotty says, then pulls out the radio. “Spock, bud, good to hear from you.”

There’s a chorus of _yeahs_ from the group.

“There is a definite pleasurable experience connected with the hearing of your voices, as well,” he replies, “especially as it sounds that you have more people here.”

“We’re in Area 51 right now, Spock,” Jim tells him. “But the problem is, we’re kind of lost. We’re not sure how to find you.”

“I see.”

“I don’t suppose you could help us find you at all?” Uhura asks.

“Actually,” Spock says, “yesterday they moved me to a different space, and during the process, I saw a portion of the base. So I could begin to guide you.”

“Do you know anything about where in the building you are?” asks Scotty. “Like what floor or wing?”

“The sector I am in is -02E06AL,” Spock informs them, “which means it is underground, two floors down from the ground floor, and in the East wing, although I don’t know what the rest means.”

“Don’t worry about it, Spock, that’s already a huge help,” Jim tells him. “Would you happen to know where the elevators are?”

“I know there is one large central one; that is the elevator I saw while being moved, but there may be more.”

“Thanks Spock. We’ll keep trying to find an elevator.” Jim turns to the group. “You all heard him: basement level two, East wing. Anyone have any idea how to get there?”

Chekhov wordlessly points to a sign behind Jim’s head. Jim turns and reads it: _00W27KG._

“Thanks, Chekhov. Knowing where we are is a great start.” Jim claps his hands together. “Let’s start moving East.”

“It’ll be this way,” Sulu says, pointing down a hallway.

“How do you know?” asks Bones.

“I have a great sense of direction,” he replies.

Jim gives Bones a thumbs-up, who simply rolls his eyes in response.

The group starts moving down the hallway, occasionally pausing to peek in the assorted rooms they come across. The rooms are mostly offices or labs, and almost always deserted.

“It’s kind of eerie how quiet this place is,” Bones comments as they move through the hall. “You’d think it’d be bustling with activity.”

“To my knowledge,” Spock pipes up from the radio, “it is because of an important procedure that has been going on for some time. Most Area 51 personnel have been redirected to work on that. As well, it is past midnight.”

“Aliens have sass, noted,” Bones mutters.

Though of course Jim can’t know for sure, he imagines Spock raises an eyebrow somewhere in the base. “I am Vulcan,” he says. “Vulcans do not express the human concept of ‘sass’.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Bones says.

Jim smiles at his shoes, trying to hide it from his friend. “Do you know anything about this procedure, Spock?”

“Nothing of note, Jim. Simply that it requires every available employee in one of the labs.”

“One of the labs?” Scotty asks. “Maybe we’ll walk out of here with toothpaste ten out of ten dentists recommend.” The group shares a chuckle.

“I do not understand,” Spock says.

“It’s been a running joke among humans for a few months now,” Jim explains, “that Area 51 is developing products superior to what we have. And since so many commercials for toothpaste claim that nine out of ten dentists recommend their brand, the joke is that Area 51 toothpaste is so good that all dentists _have_ to recommend it.”

“Fascinating,” Spock says, and his voice is so wonder-struck it makes Jim blush a little.

“It’s just a stupid meme.” Jim shrugs.

“What is a meme?” Spock queries further.

“Don’t get him started,” Bones warns, eliciting laughter from Uhura.

From there, Jim launches into a long-winded history of memes and the internet, with occasional interjections from Chekhov, who impresses upon Spock the importance of Russian cat memes, and from Scotty, who tells him all about the Scottish side of Twitter. With such stimulating intellectual discussion, time seems to fly by, and they reach the central elevator before they know it.

The hub of Area 51, the central elevator is made of glass and steel and travels through a glass elevator shaft which gives an impressive view of the bustling atrium which surrounds it. People in military uniforms, fatigues, suits, and business casual wear all walk quickly by, on the way to their next shift. The atrium is lined with benches, and some people are relaxing on them, enjoying coffee in insulated paper cups. A massive clock hangs from the ceiling, under which is a large screen that displays a schedule. The crew tries to marvel at their surroundings while simultaneously blending in, with questionable results.

With a ding, the elevator doors slide open and people begin pouring out. Once it’s empty, Jim steps in and beckons to the rest of the group. He presses the -2 button on the panel, then stands at the back. The elevator fills up, then its doors close with another ding.

Luckily the elevator heads downward first, and the crew gets out within a few minutes. As they step out, they glance around at their new surroundings: long halls with few doors, shrouded in darkness and an ominous aura. 

“Oh, I don’t like this,” Bones whispers.

“Neither do any of us,” Sulu replies.

“This way,” Jim says, gesturing down a hallway. A sign on the wall announces _East Wing_. The group heads down it.

As they continue, the ominous aura grows more distinct and more frightening with every step, until a deep male voice calls out from the darkness, “hey.”

Each of them look around for the owner of the voice. It turns out to be a guard in fatigues like theirs, standing in a doorway with a gun in hand and a suspicious look in his eye.

“I don’t think you’re authorized to be down here.”


	4. Say sike right now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda getting out of hand lmao... last chapter I was like yeah ill probably need two more chapters to wrap this up and now im thinking ill need at least three more, not including this one. rip

**21/09/2019 - Area 51, NV - 01:12**

“I don’t think you’re authorized to be down here.”

Jim laughs nervously. “What do you mean, man? Of course we are. We’re down here for the procedure tonight.” He nudges Bones beside him. “_Right_, guys?”

“Oh, yeah,” Bones picks up on Jim’s lie. “So, uh, we’ll just be on our way-”

“I need to see your ID cards,” the guard says. He holds out a hand.

Jim and Bones exchange nervous glances. “Of course,” Jim says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out the ID card he stole from the outside guard and starts to slowly hand it over.

The guard snatches it from him. “Thank you.” He brings the card close to his face to peruse it. Jim holds his breath.

Suddenly, Scotty attacks the guard, punching wildly. “Whoa, what the fuck!” The guard yells, defending himself quickly.

“Dude, what are you doing?!” Jim yells, trying to grab Scotty to pull him away. During the short scuffle, Scotty manages to pull out his taser and shock the guard. He drops to the ground like a sack of rocks.

There’s a pregnant silence.

“What the fuck, Scotty?” Uhura asks finally.

“He was distracted,” Scotty replies with a shrug.

“Yeah, but there’s cameras down here!” Jim hisses, pointing at the corner of the ceiling, where a security camera blinks sinisterly. “They’re gonna know something’s up now!”

As if on cue, a loud alarm starts blaring, and red lights on the walls start flashing.

“Fucking great, you’ve set off their red alert,” Bones growls.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Scotty snaps defensively, “I was just trying to help us get away!”

“Guys, we don’t have time to bicker!” Jim yells, pointing down the hallway. A group of guards, now heavily armed, appears from around the corner. “RUN!”

The group does as he says, turning and dashing down the long hallway. They run for a while, wildly turning down different hallways in an attempt to lose their pursuers. Out of breath, Jim stops in front of a door and turns the handle. Locked.

“God damn it,” he huffs.

“Here.” Bones fishes his own stolen ID card from his pocket and taps it on a black pad beside the door. They hear a click, and when Jim tries the handle again, it swings open.

“Quick, everybody, in here,” Jim says, ushering the crew inside. Once they’re all in, Jim slams the door shut behind them and locks it. The room is shrouded in darkness, but it seems to be an office. Jim leans up against the locked door, panting.

“Thank God,” Uhura sighs, laying a hand over her chest. “My heart’s racing.”

“Same,” Jim mutters.

Just then, they hear a short click, and light floods the room. Jim freezes, at first unwilling to turn around.

“I need backup in -02E11AR,” a female voice says quietly. Jim finally turns to see a woman in a lab coat sitting at a desk, holding a walkie talkie and looking at them curiously.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bones sighs.

* * *

Once they get there, the guards waste no time in confiscating their backpacks, cuffing each person, and hauling them through the base. Jim keeps his head down, looking at his feet as he’s marched down the corridor. His heart’s skipping beats and panic is rising in his throat; _we’re so fucked,_ he thinks.

“What should we do with these guys?” he hears one guard ask another.

“I don’t know,” the second one replies. “I think we just gotta lock em up for now. All the senior staff are occupied with the procedure right now.”

The first one sighs. “Once they hear about this, our asses are getting handed to us.”

“I’m trying not to think about it. Where should we put them?” He punctuates the question with a shove of Jim’s cuffed wrist.

“The only holding room down here is 06AL,” he says, and Jim blinks in surprise.

“Is it wise to throw 'em in there with… That thing?”

“It’s not violent. There shouldn’t be trouble.”

“All right.”

They turn a corner, and Jim risks a glance up. A small sign on the wall proclaims this corridor as Section A, and down the hall a door on the left side is emblazoned with a 06. He looks down again, trying to hide a smile.

They stop in front of the door. One of the guards unlocks it with his ID, and the crew is released of their handcuffs, then unceremoniously shoved inside before the door is slammed on them.

“Well fuck y’all too,” Bones mutters, as soon as the door is shut.

Jim immediately swings around, scanning the room for Spock. The room is painted and tiled white, so his eye lands on the dark figure asleep in the corner right away.

“Guys, look,” Jim says quietly, pointing. “It’s Spock.”

“Spock?” Scotty calls out, taking a few steps closer. “Spock, buddy, is that you?” Spock doesn’t move, so he softly lays a hand on Spock’s shoulder. “Spock-”

Spock jerks awake the second Scotty’s hand touches him. His dark eyes blink away fear and confusion, and by the time they flick over to Jim, standing slightly behind Scotty, they’re filled with a warm relief.

“You made it.” Spock’s voice is gravelly.

“Kind of.” Jim comes to stand beside Scotty. “They caught us before we could find you. But then they brought us to you anyway.” He smiles. “Kinda like fate, isn’t it?”

Jim takes the opportunity to observe Spock; he’s surprisingly human-looking. His face is long and yellowy with green-tinged lips and harsh, dark eyebrows that slant upwards towards his brown fringe. His ears are the most inhuman part, however: they’re long and pointed at the ends. His deep-set brown eyes glitter in the florescent lighting as he says, “I do not believe in fate.” He stands up, then stumbles. Jim and Scotty both rush to steady him, but he holds out his hands. “I’m fine.”

By this time, the rest of the crew has wandered over. “Pleased to meet you in the flesh,” Uhura announces, holding out her hand for a shake.

Spock glances at it, then raises his own beside his face and parts his middle and third fingers. “I as well.”

The crew scrambles to copy the hand gesture, with questionable results. Jim manages it, but Bones has to physically pull apart his fingers and hold them with his other hand.

A ghost of a smirk plays around Spock’s lips. “Don’t worry about doing the ta’al,” he says, “it’s a traditional Vulcan greeting, but many humans find it difficult.”

They sit again, forming a circle on the grimy floor. “Unfortunately, they confiscated all the supplies we brought with us,” Jim sighs, shooting an annoyed look at Scotty, “otherwise I’d offer you a protein bar or something - wait, do you eat human food?”

“Vulcans can eat almost everything humans can,” Spock answers, “though our race is a pacifist one, we choose not to eat meat.”

“Ah,” Jim replies, “Good for you then.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“I assume, then, the rescue plan is no longer viable?” Spock inquires gently.

Bones snorts. “That’s one way to put it.”

This time it’s Bones’ turn to receive an annoyed look from Jim. “Just ’cause we’ve had a bit of a setback-“

“A bit?”

“-Doesn’t mean it’s totally impossible to break out of here.”

“And how, pray tell, are we doing that?” Uhura asks. “They took all our stuff and they know our faces now. It’s not like, even if we could break out of this cell, we could sneak back out the way we came. They’d catch us before we made it down the hall!”

“I gotta admit, it’s not looking up, chief,” Chekhov adds.

Jim scowls. “This whole situation is really testing my optimism.”

“I may have a solution,” Spock says, and the whole group turns to him expectantly. “However, it requires a bit of an explanation of how I came to the 21st century in the first place.”

Jim scoots forward on his butt, then props his chin up on his hand, resting his elbow on his knee. “Go on, then. We’ve got plenty of time.”

* * *

**06/09/2249 - Starfleet Academy, San Francisco, CA - 16:02**

All of Spock’s classes had finished for the day, and he was walking crisply and purposefully through the halls of the main quantum physics building towards one of the labs. As a fourth year student close to graduation, he had several experiments to oversee, all of which would contribute to his final dissertation. It was one of these upon which he was now going to check.

Once he reached the lab, he let himself in and turned on the lights, only to be surprised by a figure sitting at his desk. The figure startled, then jumped up, revealing himself to be Cadet Williams, a student with whom Spock was not close, but knew from a few classes.

“Cadet Spock,” he said quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t realize this was your lab.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “This lab is supposed to be locked and only accessible to those with my identification,” he replied. “How did you get in here?”

Williams laughed nervously. “It wasn’t locked, maybe you just forgot? Anyway, I actually have a class, so I gotta-“

Spock took a step forward. “It locks automatically when the door is shut, Cadet. I do not want to take this to the dean, but if you cannot answer my questions, I will be forced to conclude you have ill intentions and I will take academic action.” Spock supposed this had to happen at some point - things had been going a bit too smoothly lately. The thought of the first Vulcan in Starfleet Academy graduating with a renowned dissertation must have been too much for him to bear.

Williams quailed under Spock’s intense stare. “Alright.” He sighed. “Come over here for a moment.”

“Cadet, I-“

“Just come look. Yes, I broke into your lab and interfered with your experiment, but I’ve made a major discovery.”

Spock clenched his jaw, suppressing a flash of anger. “I will look,” Spock said, approaching his desk, “but let it be known I will have you court-martialled for this.”

Williams moved aside as Spock came to a stop beside him. On his desk sat the microscope that he had been using to observe spatial microphenomenon. Spock’s experiment consisted of creating a minuscule replica of a quadrant of space by manipulating certain atoms. He then observed its movements and patterns, and compared it to that of the real quadrant. Simply the fact that he had been able to create such a replica, a bite-sized piece of space, as a professor of his had said, was an incredible feat. So far, the way it behaved had been quite regular, but it did not exactly match the movements of the real quadrant. Spock had hypothesized several reasons why, but since the experiment still had several weeks to go, he was not too invested in any one of them.

Spock leaned over and put his eye to the microscope. Before, there had been a smooth canvasspeckled with only a few stars. Now, a clean line cut through the middle of it.

Spock jerked upright as though he’d been shocked. “What did you do?” He nearly growled.

“I simply manipulated a few of the star replicas,” he replied. “There were a few supernovas, then this was created. It’s a micro-tear - essentially, a mini black hole.”

Spock leaned back in to look. “Fascinating,” he couldn’t help saying, because it was - as infuriating as the situation was, this was an incredible new development.

“Isn’t it?” Williams asked excitedly. The tone grated on every nerve in Spock’s body. “I was thinking, this is an amazing opportunity for time travel research! We know black holes are involved in the multiverse theory, and there’s been speculation that black holes have already been used to travel back and forth in time. Having a small, portable version of one we can study is an amazing opportunity.”

Spock righted himself again and glared at Cadet Williams. “However fascinating it is, you had no right to interfere with my experiment like this. As for the suggestion of utilizing my replica in other research, it is out of the question until my own dissertation is finished. I have nothing against donating my creation to others to use for the general furthering of scientific knowledge, but this is _my_ experiment first and foremost that you have ruined.”

“I don’t think I’ve ruined it,” he shot back defensively, “I’m pretty sure I improved it, actually! I took a look at your findings so far-“ he gestured to Spock’s notebook, lying neatly beside the microscope with a pen tucked inside- “and they were boring as shit, dude! You might be a genius, but you’ve got no sense of narrative!”

“That is not what matters in a scientific experiment,” Spock snapped, even as he berated himself for giving this argument credence by responding to it. “I wonder at how you’ve even made it this far in the academy with that mindset.”

Williams huffed. “Is that _logical_, Cadet Spock? Isn’t the Vulcan motto, like, live and let live or some other stupid shit?”

“That is not the point!” Spock couldn’t help raising his voice at him; he was just being so infuriatingly self-righteous. He took a moment to try and calm his emotions, then took another step towards him, getting right in his personal space. Cadet Williams just stared right back, refusing to surrender any ground, morally or physically.

“I see how it is, Cadet,” Spock said bitterly. “You were not confident in your own experiment for your dissertation, so you broke into my lab to plagiarize my experiment. You then tampered with it, to ensure my progress would be set back so that you could finish your dissertation before mine. You could hardly be accused of plagiarism if yours was the one that came out first.”

Williams’ eyes glittered cruelly. “Or maybe I was simply curious. I thought maybe you’d appreciate that. No emotional motives of panic or insecurity, just cold, emotionless intellectual curiosity.” He shrugged. “But I guess I was wrong, huh? Every bit as weak and emotional as us humans.” He grinned. “How’s it feel, to be so debased?”

His words cut deeper than he could possibly know. Spock couldn’t stop the fury rising in his veins, and he couldn’t stop himself from grabbing Williams’ throat in one swift motion and bringing their faces close to hiss, “Or maybe you broke into my lab, tripped over your own clumsy feet, and when you fell, my microscope landed on your neck!”

Williams made some garbled vocalizations, and Spock released him just as suddenly. His hand was shaking. He couldn’t believe his own lapse of emotional control.

Cadet Williams was breathing hard, bruises forming around his throat, but he had this look in his eye like he’d backed Spock into a corner.

“You’re done for,” he snarled. “As soon as they hear you’ve assaulted a fellow cadet, you’re out of the academy. Now, I’ll just be on my way, and I’m taking this with me.”

The cadet made a grab for the microscope, and Spock lunged to try and stop him. In the struggle, the cadet somehow managed to remove the slide from the microscope, and then it clattered to the floor. Spock’s precious replica tumbled out of the slide, landed neatly on his shoe, then all he knew was black.

* * *

**21/09/2019 - Area 51, NV - 01:47**

“I was unconscious for some time,” Spock concludes his story, “but when I awoke, I was in 21st century San Fransisco, in someone’s home. They called the police, who eventually got in contact with the FBI. I was then shipped here.”

“So you’re saying…” Bones says slowly, “you basically created a black hole, then fell into it, and you’re not dead?”

“The reason I am still alive does remain a mystery,” Spock replies primly, “but I am beginning to hypothesize that it has something to do with the reason the replica did not exactly match with the real quadrant.”

“Right.”

“So, what does this have to do with escaping Area 51?” Scotty asks.

“The point of all this is,” Spock tells him, “if I could re-create that quadrant with the exact black hole, we could escape this base by travelling to the future.”

“But how?” Scotty pushes further. “I don’t see how you’re going to re-create the quadrant in this cell, especially without the technology of the future.”

“Yes, that is a difficulty,” Spock concedes. “But not one we can overcome.”

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Jim grins. “Any ideas on how we can overcome it?”

Spock stands. “Come with me,” he says.

The rest of the group stands as well, and they follow Spock to a far wall. He reaches out and taps the wall. A hollow wooden sound rings out through the cell, and then Spock pushes. A square panel of the wall wobbles, then falls with a clatter, revealing a small space in which two small electronics lie.

“I concealed these on my person when they captured me, then hid them in the room,” he explains. “This is my communicator, and this is my tricorder. With these, I have some hope of re-creating my quadrant replica.”

Jim reaches inside and picks up the tricorder, turning it this way and that to examine it. “Fascinating,” he finally says.

Spock’s cheeks take on a slight green hue. Their eyes lock as he gently removes the tricorder from Jim’s grip, and something passes between them. “I had better get started,” he says.


	5. Love that for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock tinkers and Jim chatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the bonding chapter!! I hope the kinda quick pacing of how they get to know each other is okay. But honestly to become t'hy'la with someone in a couple days I'm pretty sure you gotta get to know each other quick, so hopefully it works lol  
enjoy!!!

**21/09/2019 - Area 51, NV - 05:03**

If someone had asked Jim in high school what he thought college would be like, he probably would have answered in typical, all-American, raunchy Hollywood comedy fashion: lots of parties, hookups, skipping class, and trying new and dangerous drugs. In reality, his first year went a lot less like how college is portrayed in American media: he slept a lot, cried a fair amount, and the most dangerous drug he did was smoke a lot of weed. In truth, he had a really hard time adjusting to living on his own in a new state, especially since that state was California. The difference between Riverside, Iowa, and Los Angeles, California, seemed insurmountable at first. But he made some really close friends, and with their help, he settled in so much that by Christmas break, he didn’t really want to go home.

Jim turns all this over in his mind as he watches Spock fiddle with his instruments in the corner of the cell. It’s been several hours since the group met up with Spock, and it seems the exhaustion from such a crazy experience has finally caught up with the others - they’re all fast asleep. Jim, however, feels like he’s buzzing, like his brain is on fire. Physically, he’s exhausted as well - there’s no way he wouldn’t be - but his brain is refusing to let him sleep. So he lies on his side, observing Spock meticulously take apart his instruments and dutifully hide the parts behind the wall every hour when the guards change their posts.

“You must be freaking out, huh?” Jim asks softly.

Spock looks up, startled. “Jim. I thought you were asleep.”

Jim smiles. “I’m restless. You know when you’re physically tired, but your mind is too active to actually fall asleep?”

Spock nods.

“That’s me right now.” Jim shifts on to his stomach, pillowing his head on his folded arms. “I was just thinking how massive of a change this must be for you.”

“Indeed,” Spock says, returning his gaze to his instruments. “In the past few days, I have experienced many turbulent changes. However, logic dictates that change is necessary for progress. Instead of dwelling on on emotions about this change, I am simply doing everything I can to get the situation under control again.”

“I see,” Jim says. The room is quiet again for a few moments, with the exception of his friends’ soft breathing and the metal clinking of Spock’s instruments. “You mention logic a lot. Is the concept of that important to you?”

Jim notices Spock stiffen almost imperceptibly as he tinkers. “That is a loaded question, Jim.” His eyes are trained on his communicator, but his voice is gentle as he considers the question. “Logical discipline of the mind is one of the core principles of the Vulcan people. I value it because it is how I was raised, but also because it marks me out from the humans I attend the Academy with. I know, logically, my Vulcan side makes me an asset to Starfleet - they get diversity points, but they also get a new perspective on many problems. I hope to be an inspiration for other alien species to attend Starfleet Academy; I feel they need to widen their perspective.”

“That makes sense,” Jim muses, “if you have a whole space army consisting of only one species that occupies a tiny portion of that space, it’s kinda biased towards that species’ values and culture.”

“Precisely.” Spock glances at Jim, a note of approval flashing in his eyes. Jim gives him a smile back, and Spock returns his gaze to his instruments. “That concept of diversity widening one’s perspective, that is another core facet of Vulcan philosophy. We call it _infinite diversity in infinite combinations_. Although it is a principle many Vulcans, I have come to learn through firsthand experience, uphold in theory but not in practise.”

Jim shifts a little closer. “Because your mom’s human?” He guesses.

Spock’s eyes flicker to him for a split-second. “Yes.”

“Damn,” Jim sighs. “I thought racism would be over by the 23rd century.”

“Unfortunately, Jim, I do not think prejudice will ever be entirely eradicated,” Spock says quietly. He’s still staring at the communicator, but his hands have stilled. “It is logical, in a sense. It comes from an _us vs. them_ mindset of one’s ancestors, back when they had to compete with other ethnic groups for territory and resources. It is genetic, and one cannot help one’s genetic inheritance.”

“Just because something is logical, doesn’t mean it’s right, though.” Jim says. “Even if prejudice is logical because of our genetics or whatever, it still harms millions of people.”

“You are correct,” Spock says. “I have learned, through my interactions with humans, that logic is not always paramount.”

Jim snaps his fingers, sitting up. “Y’know what, this reminds me of something we talked about in my introduction to philosophy class last year.” He crosses his legs. “I slept through ninety percent of that class, but I remember this one day we had a really heated argument about the concept of free will.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, setting aside his communicator. “What was the argument?”

“It was like, you couldn’t be responsible for anything you did, because you do what you do because of the way you are, and the way you are is determined by your genetics and your upbringing, not your own actions,” Jim tells him. “So therefore, free will does not exist.”

“Interesting,” Spock says. “Which side were you on?”

“Pro-free will, duh,” Jim says. “I hate all that stuff about having no free will, because then it just gives people an excuse to be assholes. Like being prejudiced. Even if prejudice is genetic, we can still control our day-to-day actions and try not to be fucking racist.” He scowls.

“I am in agreement with you,” Spock says. “I have found that many Vulcans fly any type of problematic behaviour under the banner of logic, and receive no criticism from members of the community. That was one of the many things about Vulcan that I factored into my decision to leave.”

Jim pauses before asking, “Do you like it on Vulcan?”

Spock gives a small shrug. “It is home. In many ways it will always be a difficult place for me to be, because of certain memories and acquaintances who are associated with it. But there are also many places on Vulcan I miss.”

Jim scoots even further. “Do you mind telling me about Vulcan?” When Spock doesn’t answer immediately, he hastily follows it up with, “if you don’t want to, it’s okay, I understand. I’m just curious, you know. This whole situation is just so… fascinating.”

Spock meets Jim’s eyes, and a familiar warmth washes through the Vulcan’s face before he replies. “I do not mind, Jim. In fact, it would be a welcome distraction. I admit I am stuck on the problem of how to recreate my quadrant replica.”

Jim smiles, then lies back down, crossing his arms behind his head and looking up at Spock. He notices Spock’s cheeks taking on that green hue again, and he has to admit - Spock is gorgeous. His face is all sharp angles and striking contrasts, but his whole demeanour is so warm and kind. The word that jumps to Jim’s mind is _gentlemanly_.

Spock begins to tell him of Vulcan, and Jim listens, rapt. He tells Jim of the sprawling reddish-orange deserts he played in as a child. Those fields of sand seemed to go on forever to his young eyes, and beneath the wide-open sky anything was possible. Desert plants could become gnarled bones of ancient monsters, and his pet sehlat, I-Chaya, could become a fearsome beast that would slay his childhood bullies. He tells Jim of his family; speaks with stiffness of his father Sarek, the man who wanted a traditional Vulcan son from a traditional Human woman and then subtly blamed Spock for this throughout his life. He tells Jim about his mother Amanda, about her meticulously kept household and odd Earth quirks he didn’t understand until later: how she loved poetry and music, hated covering her hair, and consistently tried to grow tulips even though they shrivelled up and died every time. He tells Jim of Vulcan customs, sheepishly admitting to subverting almost all of them as a teenager, a fact which Jim delights in.

“So you were punk!” Jim laughs.

“I would not go that far, Jim,” Spock corrects, amused. “I was not part of any subculture or larger group. I simply rebelled because it was the only thing I could think of to do. Because it was logical for a teenager to do.”

“Sure,” Jim giggles. “You know, I went through a lot of teenage angst myself.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.” Jim grins up at Spock. “I fucking hated Riverside when I was fourteen. It seemed to me like everything in my life was awful because I was stuck in this hick town. I would do shit like steal motorcycles and get into fights.”

Spock’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Suddenly it makes sense why you were so willing to break into a military base.”

Jim laughs. “I’ve left my angst behind me, I promise. But yeah, I guess I do still have a bit of the thrill-seeker left in me.”

“Would you mind telling me about this angst?” Spock queries. “I am also interested in hearing about your childhood exploits.”

Jim laughs again. “Yeah, of course. My stories probably won’t be as cool as yours, though.”

“I suppose it depends on your perspective,” Spock says quietly.

Jim tells him about growing up in a small town, about how his neighbours were his best friends as a kid, second only to his many pets he collected during outdoor exploring. He tells Spock about corn mazes and hayrides, the bite of an October night and the ecstasy of dressing up and asking for candy for a night, the excitement of being able to disappear into the role of someone else. He tells him about playing baseball in the summer even though he didn’t like baseball that much, he just played to tag along with his older brother and to feel like one of the cool kids. He tells him about lemonade stands and catalpa groves and breaking his arm jumping off the playscape when he was eight because he couldn’t resist a dare. He tells him about the transition from middle school to high school, about suddenly feeling friendless and miserable with greasy skin and gangly limbs he had yet to grow into. He tells him about uncontrollable anger and helplessness, about how getting in trouble was the only way he knew how to ask for help, like a newborn who cries whenever it needs anything.

Somewhere along the line, Spock’s expression had softened into a sort of understanding, and now they hold each other’s gaze as Jim says, “I hated myself, and I had no idea how to express that other than to act out in order to feel something, you know?” Spock nods shortly. “The adrenaline of getting punched in the face beat sitting at home in my room, staring at the wall for hours and thinking about what a piece of shit I was.”

Spock’s features contort for a moment, like he’s about to say something, but he stops himself as Jim speaks again.

“I started feeling better about myself when I was like sixteen. That’s when I mellowed out, I guess.” He sighs and closes his eyes. “I didn’t realize until I stopped feeling that anger how stressful it was. I think if I kept going on that path, it would have killed me.” He laughs shortly.

“I am glad it did not,” Spock says gently.

Jim smiles. “Me too, Spock. I don’t want to be angry and cynical all the time anymore. It’s depressing.”

“Indeed,” Spock murmurs.

“I want to believe in stuff like love and beauty and the inherent goodness of humanity,” Jim continues. “Getting into books really helped me with that, actually. Like, I know the world is harsh and cruel, but in fiction you can romanticize surviving that, y’know? And if I can romanticize it, I have motivation to do it.”

There’s a short pause. Jim opens his eyes and notices Spockis looking at him differently, greenish lips parted slightly, a sparkle in his deep brown eyes.

“Sorry, I guess I’m rambling,” Jim laughs sheepishly. “Vulcans don’t like to romanticize things, do they?”

“Not these days,” Spock replies.

“Right.” Jim sighs, rearranging himself on the cold floor. “But yeah. Teenage angst is a trip. It’s weird how much such a small portion of my life so far has affected me so drastically. Like, before high school, I never could have pictured myself doing something like this.”

The ends of Spock’s lips quirk upwards. “Breaking into a maximum security military base in order to liberate an extraterrestrial from the future?”

Jim giggles. “Well, I never pictured anything like this except in purposefully-unrealistic daydreams. Nah, I mean I never really thought about trying to help someone in such a drastic way. Like, I never even volunteered for a non-profit aid organization. I guess that’s a part of American culture, to be self-involved like that. But ever since I mellowed out and let go of my anger, I’ve become so much more compassionate. And you know what? I really like that for me.” He grins.

Spock gives him one of his subtle smiles Jim has come to adore. “I as well like that for you.”

Jim’s grin widens, and the green tinge to Spock’s cheeks deepens. They look into each others eyes for a few moments, then Spock glances back at his communicator and tricorder.

“Spock,” Jim says softly.

Spock looks up again. “Yes, Jim?”

There’s so many things on the tip of Jim’s tongue right now - _you’re incredible, I really appreciate you listening to me, I can’t believe how lucky I am to have met you_ \- but the one that he ends up saying is, “do you wanna play chess?”


	6. Fs in the chat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, I promise!! One of my goals for 2020 is to get this fic done, so here's hoping.
> 
> also short chapter tonight, sorry for that

**21/09/2019 - Area 51, NV - 05:43**

“Chess?” Spock seems bemused.

Jim nods, picking up a piece of Spock’s tricorder. “We can use these as the pieces. For example, this looks like a rook.” He places it on the floor and clears off the rest of the tile it sits on. “We’ll use the floor tiles as chess squares.”

Spock gives him a small smile, then begins to arrange the pieces on the floor. “Chess is my favourite human game. It is quite logical.”

Jim finishes setting up the pieces. “These’ll be the pawns,” he says, gesturing, “the rooks, bishops, knights, and the king and queen.”

“Agreed. You may have the first move.”

“Thanks, Spock.”

They play quietly for a few minutes. Jim’s overactive mind is finally calming down, and his exhaustion beginning to creep up on him.

Spock notices Jim’s eyes drooping. “Would you like to play later?” He asks. “You look tired, and I should get back to the problem of recreating my quadrant replica.”

“Nah,” Jim says, waving off Spock’s concerns. “I’m not that tired.”

“As you wish,” Spock replies, raising an eyebrow. He moves a pawn forward, capturing one of Jim’s.

“Nice.” Jim grins at him, then uses his knight to take Spock’s piece. He giggles at Spock’s expression of surprise. “I used to play chess competitively,” he informs Spock. “But I quit ‘cause I was afraid of looking uncool.”

“I do not see how an intellectually stimulating hobby is labeled ‘uncool’,” Spock says.

Jim shrugs. “Humans have weird standards to judge things by. Everything is weird or cringe until it becomes popular, at which point it’s deemed cool, then when it reaches a certain height of popularity, it’s weird and cringe again.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Fascinating.” He moves another one of his pieces, taking one of Jim’s. As he goes to sweep the piece aside, he brushes Jim’s fingers with his as Jim reaches out to move one of his own.

“Oh, sorry,” Jim says automatically, but he can’t help feeling a strange heat in his hand where Spock brushed him. He glances at Spock, who’s looking down at his hand, green blush deep and pupils blown wide. “You feeling okay?” He asks, suddenly concerned. “You’re not, like, getting sick from the difference in environment, are you?” When Spock doesn’t respond immediately, he continues: “I heard that if time travel was possible - well, I guess I know it is now, but I heard that the air quality and the microbes in the atmosphere is so different between centuries that it could possibly kill someone from another time, and maybe because you’re also Vulcan it’s not really helping-”

“Jim.” Spock looks up at him, and Jim stops talking. “I am perfectly all right. You do not need to worry.”

“Oh,” Jim laughs slightly, feeling a little foolish.

“If you must know,” Spock begins haltingly, “I reacted peculiarly because Vulcans are touch-telepathic, and the hands in particular are a very sensitive spot. When we brushed hands, I could feel your mind for a moment.”

“Oh.” Jim realizes in a rush that Spock must have read his thoughts about how attractive Jim finds him and how smitten he is already, and this time it’s his turn for his cheeks to heat up. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“I am not angry, Jim,” Spock says softly, “nor uncomfortable. If I may say so, the briefest flash of your mind that I sensed was… pleasurable.”

“Indeed?” Jim asks, parroting the way Spock speaks. He smirks, then reaches his hand forward again and, ever so slowly, places his fingertips on the back of Spock’s hand. Spock shivers, and Jim feels an electric current spike through him right where their bodies connect.

“What was that?” Jim asks him. “Did you feel that as well?”

Spock nods. “I did.” He lifts his head so his gaze meets Jim’s, leaving him breathless for a split second. “Jim, you should also know that hands, for Vulcans, are an erogenous zone. And that a human equivalent of this action is a kiss.”

Jim feels himself flush deeper than he thought was even possible. He glances down at their hands. In one fluid motion, Spock lifts his hand from underneath Jim’s and twines their fingers together. Jim gasps as the electric current running through his body intensifies.

“A kiss, huh?” Jim manages to get out, smiling at Spock. “May I kiss you in the human way, then?”

“Certainly,” Spock breathes.

Jim leans forward, his eyes slipping shut, his heart skipping beats, and kisses Spock lightly on the lips. The moment their lips touch, every nerve in his body sings. The electric current seems to connect within itself, and everything is sliding into place in ways he never knew they could. He feels whole.

Jim pulls away, startled and almost frightened at everything he just felt. He looks into Spock’s eyes - his dark, impossibly deep eyes - and he doesn’t even need to ask the question; Spock just nods, and Jim knows he felt it too. Jim clutches Spock’s hand tighter, and kisses him properly this time. He kisses him like he’ll never kiss anyone again, slow and gentle and savouring every moment.

Spock pulls away first this time, his breath fanning Jim’s face as he does. Jim gives him a smile, and tentatively, Spock returns it.

Jim pauses before he speaks, trying to find the right words to describe what just happened. “That was-”

Suddenly, the door to the cell bangs open, and in strides a pair of guards. Jim and Spock jump to their feet, disentangling their hands. Jim moves himself in front of their forgotten chess game, trying to block the sight of the tricorder and communicator pieces all over the floor.

“You.” One of them points at Spock. “Come with us.”

Spock does not move, unblinking eyes betraying nothing. Jim glances helplessly between Spock and the guards.

The guard sighs gruffly, then marches over and grabs Spock by the arm. He cuffs him, then begins to lead him to the door.

“Hey, wait!” Jim yells, panicking. “What are you doing?! You can’t just take him like this!”

The guards don’t bother answering. Spock glances over his shoulder just before they leave the room, his eyes finding Jim’s like a plea, a prayer.

“Spock!”

Then the door slams shut.

* * *

Spock quells the fear and panic rising in his throat with a tremendous effort as he’s marched down Area 51’s halls. _It will all be fine,_ he tells himself. He’s not really sure he believes it, but he has a lot of practise convincing himself of things he doesn’t really believe.

They walk for a while, eventually coming to a stop in front of a door in the west wing. The guards unlock the doors, and he’s marched into a large, minimalist boardroom. Sitting around the spacious table are people in military uniforms, and at the front of the room stands a team of men and women in lab coats. They seem to be presenting a slide show.

“Ah, here it is. Thank you,” says one woman, nodding at the guards. They bring him up to the front of the room. Spock looks at all the people staring at him, feeling his stomach drop. This does not seem like it will end well. He sneaks a glance to the side, trying to see what’s on their PowerPoint — unfortunately, it’s blocked by someone’s head. He looks down at the floor.

“This alien has singlehandedly confirmed the multiverse theory,” the woman announces to the room. She looks smugly at the others’ shocked expressions before continuing. “It appeared in a civilian’s home on September sixth, and was passed to us on the ninth. Upon inspection of the site it was found in, some antimatter was recovered by our scientists. After undergoing some testing, we discovered this antimatter is from another universe entirely. And, using this antimatter, we’ve created a device that will allow us to contact this parallel universe.”

She motions to another presenter, and he brings out a device no larger than the average communicator, shiny and silver. He sets it down on the table, and presses the top of it; a hologram springs to life, projecting a keyboard and a blinking cursor on to the slide show.

“We type whatever message we want to send, and it transcribes the message to an audio recording, which is broadcasted through the infrastructure they have,” the woman explains. “We don’t quite understand it yet, but they have airwaves similar to our radio waves.”

_They’ve managed to get into Starfleet’s subspace frequency,_ Spock realizes. He wonders, with nausea rising in his throat, what they’ll do with it. In his experience, this is a malevolent organization, and he can’t imagine any good would come out of contact with Starfleet.

“We’ve discussed with the higher-ups,” the woman says, with the briefest flash of suppressed irritation in her voice, “and they think the best course of action is to attempt to contact this alien’s people.” She gestures at Spock. “See if we can get anything out of returning it safely — resources, information, that kind of thing.”

_A hostage negotiation!_ thinks Spock, outraged. _21st century Earth is indeed brutal._

“So of course, the first step is teaching it to speak English,” the woman says. “We have to be able to communicate with its species.” Everyone around the table nods sagely. She waves to the guards who brought Spock in, and they nod shortly, grab his arms again, and take him from the room.

The guards drag him down the halls for a long time. Every hallway starts to blend together, each fluorescent light looking exactly like the last, and Spock loses track of how long they’ve been walking. Eventually, they come to a stop beside another cell, and he doesn’t even have time to take note of the room number before they toss him inside and slam the door.

Spock curls up in a corner, resigning himself to another sleepless night on cold tile. The only thing he takes pleasure in is seeing his English teachers’ stunned faces when he speaks perfect Standard right back at them.

His fleeting happiness at that thought fades when he realizes they might punish him for deceiving them. He sighs, rolling over, and lets himself think of Jim. Jim, who is beautiful and intelligent and fierce, and maybe the best thing that’s ever happened to him. If anyone can save him, it’s Jim Kirk.

_Jim,_ he thinks, _come to my aid. I need you._

* * *

In the depths of Area 51, Jim Kirk’s eyes snap open in a panic. “Spock,” he breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was debating adding the tag "accidental bonding" to the fic, but I'm not really sure if this counts as accidental bonding? They kissed on purpose which (in my mind, at least) is what solidified the bond, so it's not accidental per se. I guess it also doesn't matter that much, lol. Let me know if you think I should add it tho


End file.
